Polar opposites
by BHP
Summary: Things are complicated after the events of "The birthday present". Or are they?


All the usual disclaimers apply: I don't own the show, or the characters, or anything except the words on this page.

This would take place in the week immediately after the episode "The birthday present". I hope you enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think.

**Polar opposites  
by BHP**

Milton Hardcastle shifted slightly in a vain attempt to find a more comfortable position in the narrow hospital bed. Visiting hours would be starting soon and he wanted to get as comfortable as possible before Mark arrived. If he fidgeted too much while the younger man was there with him, Mark would be hunting down a nurse or a doctor to give Hardcastle more pain medication. And that was the last thing he wanted or needed. Which wasn't to say that it didn't hurt; a bullet in the chest at near point-blank range was obviously going to hurt. It was just that the enforced inactivity of lying in the hospital recuperating was more painful in some ways than the bullet wound. There were so many things he wanted to do, and people he wanted to talk to. He wanted to know exactly what had happened to Weed Randall, and why Frank was being so reticent about the events of that fateful day. He needed to know the details of what Sandy had done, and what would happen to him because of his actions. But most of all, Hardcastle needed to know what was going on in Mark's head. He had to know why the younger man was pretending that everything was alright, even though Hardcastle could see that Mark didn't really believe that himself.

Moving re-awakened the sharp pain in his chest, and Milt resigned himself to remaining in his current, almost supine, position. Sitting completely upright was apparently not an option yet. Not to mention that getting himself upright would no doubt disrupt the many leads and IV lines attached to various parts of his body, and disturbing any of those would lead to the sudden appearance of the afternoon shift nurse, Nurse Hackett. In the privacy of his thoughts, Hardcastle had dubbed her Nurse Hatchet, as everything he said or did attracted the same response from her: one clear, discerning and completely unemotional sweep of her dark eyes, a slight shake of her neatly bobbed brown hair, and a gently despairing sigh. Then would come her verbal answer, cutting him down in clipped and icy tones, as if to a very young child, "Now, Mr. Hardcastle, we don't want to move and disturb all the nice doctors' hard work, do we?"

Milt had told her, after the first of these less than subtle rhetorical questions, that he was actually a retired judge, and used to sitting up straight and facing the world head on. "How nice for you," she'd cooed, "but let's not throw our weight around, shall we? Our doctors know what's best, and we're going to be a good, obedient patient, aren't we?" In the face of her cool and gently condescending remarks, Hardcastle had conceded the battle, as well as the war. Now he survived by waiting for Mark's daily visit and then demanding that the young ex-con take him home to the estate. He was really looking forward to the day he could board his wheelchair out of the hospital, and planning how to accidentally run the wheels over Nurse Hackett's prim little foot.

Putting that happy daydream aside for the moment, Hardcastle turned his attention back to the little he knew about the day Weed Randall had shot him. He remembered being shot; the sharp pain of the bullet hitting him, and the feeling of his chest slowly being compressed by a huge, heavy, inexorable weight. He also remembered Mark's face, eyes terrified in a pale face, while the young man hung on to Hardcastle's hand and ordered the judge to hold on. Strange that he had no similar memory of Sandy being there. After that, Hardcastle had to admit that things got a little disjointed. He recalled images more than a connected series of events: doctors' faces, beeping equipment, a sense of urgency around him, and a slow slide into beckoning darkness. But through it all, Mark's words remained clear, his beacon of safety, "Hold on, Judge. You can do this. Trust me."

Hardcastle sighed and let that memory fade. It had taken a lot of quiet thought for him to admit the truth to himself, after he'd woken up in his hospital bed. He'd made it through the surgery because Mark had told him he could. Without the younger man's presence and belief, Hardcastle knew how easy it would have been to slip away and let go of his grip on the world. But Mark had told Hardcastle to trust him, and the jurist had done so without a second thought or any care for the consequences. And those consequences were painful, Hardcastle admitted: the ache in his chest, the many needle marks and IV holes from well-meaning nurses, and the feeling that Mark was suffering in some way and needed help.

That nebulous feeling nagged at Hardcastle day and night. Whenever Mark came to visit, the younger man seemed 'fine', for want of a better word. Mark was always upbeat, positive, and chattering incessantly about anything that came to mind. So far, he'd discussed the weather, the rose bushes at the estate, the muffler on Frank's car, the seasonings in Claudia's pasta dishes, baseball, the John Wayne movies the judge was missing, and the usefulness of Nurse Hackett's restrictions on Hardcastle's actions. That last, alone, was enough to tell Hardcastle that there was something off-kilter about Mark's behaviour; the younger man usually thought all nurses were irritants, unless they were young and pretty, and you could wheedle their telephone numbers out of them. The most telling clue, though, was that Mark was never quiet. The endless chatter was simply a smokescreen for something Mark wanted to keep hidden, and whatever it was, it was eating away at the young man's soul.

Their very first conversation, a few days ago, had been very different. Mark had been hesitant to speak, and Hardcastle had only managed to get a few sentences out of him. Hardcastle could still feel Mark's desperate grip on his hand, and see how Mark couldn't meet his eyes for fear of crying. "I killed a man, Judge. It was Weed or Sandy, and I didn't … oh, God, I killed him."

The bright sunshine outside his window pulled Hardcastle's thoughts from the conversation that haunted him. A quick check of the time showed that visiting hours had just started, and Hardcastle could hear footsteps heading in his direction. Moments later, Frank's smiling face appeared. One furtive glance later, Hardcastle found himself the recipient of a small brown paper bag. Closer examination of the contents revealed a large chocolate brownie, huddled between two fishing magazines. Hardcastle sighed in blissful appreciation. "Finally. Something in this place that's worth eating."

Savouring a corner of the forbidden treat, Hardcastle peered around Frank, only to find no sign of Mark. Puzzlement turned to confusion, and then quickly to concern. "Frank, where's McCormick? He's okay, isn't he?"

Frank smiled at the open concern. "Mark's fine, Milt. He had some things to take care of today, and he wasn't sure how long it would take. He asked me if I could drop by and keep you company until he got here."

Cogs began to turn in Hardcastle's brain. He smelt something bigger than errands in the background. Mark hadn't missed a visiting hour yet, and Hardcastle knew that the kid had made a point of arranging all his errands and appointments outside of visiting hours. Which had to mean that whatever these 'things' were, Mark wasn't in control of them. And Mark had no option but to do whatever it was at an inconvenient time. Hardcastle glanced at Frank, considering his options.

A direct question would get nothing out of Frank, especially if Mark had asked the other man to say nothing. Then again, Frank was the perfect person to give Hardcastle all the details about the day of the shooting. Frank was privy to all the police reports and witness statements. The trick would be in leading the two aspects of Frank's personality, police lieutenant and Hardcastle's friend, to a place where both their interests coincided. And making sure that this convergence included telling Hardcastle where Mark really was this afternoon. Hardcastle loved a good challenge, and settled to his self-appointed task with a contented grin.

"Lovely day, isn't it?" Hardcastle figured that was innocuous enough to start with. Frank nodded at the seemingly harmless statement. "Sure is. Hey, when you're out of here, do you think you could drop by and have a chat with Claudia? She's got this sudden urge to plant rose bushes in the front yard, and I don't have the foggiest idea of what to get or where to plant them."

Hardcastle nodded. "I'll get Mark to come along as well. I'm sure he won't mind planting the bushes for Claudia. He's had a bit of practice at it, after all." Both men chuckled at that thought. "Sure would be nice to just spend some time sitting and chatting with friends, too. For a while there, I thought Weed Randall might put an end to that sort of thing for me." Hardcastle mused, gaze on the bright sunlight outside the window. He risked a quick glance at Frank, but saw no signs of suspicion from that quarter. "It was a day just like this, too. I wonder if he had any family, you know, whether anyone will be sorry that Weed Randall's gone?"

Now Frank looked more than a little bemused. "You know, Milt, I sometimes think I'll never understand you. Weed Randall tries to kill you, and that's all you can think about?"

Hardcastle shook his head gently. "No. But I still don't know everything that happened after I was shot, so it's the only thing I can really wonder about, and have any hope of finding out." Hardcastle turned up the dial on the 'pathetic little me' act one more notch, and basked in satisfaction as he watched Frank take the bait.

"Milt, most of the reports aren't ever available to the public, you know that." Frank sighed at the knowing, slightly exasperated, look on Hardcastle's face, and capitulated. "But I suppose you've got a right to know what happened; after all, you were the victim. And you are a judge. Just don't go spreading any of the details around, please, or the Chief will probably want my head on a platter." Frank's smile took the sting out of the warning, and Milt nodded in encouragement.

"Okay, then, where shall I start?" And Frank settled himself more deeply in the puny plastic chair, and recounted all the details of that day, starting from the moment Weed had shot the jurist. By the time Frank was done, almost half an hour later, Hardcastle was seething with barely suppressed fury.

"I can't believe he did that! What was he thinking? Was he even thinking at all? Just wait until I get my hands on him." Hardcastle spluttered in indignant rage, so incensed that he didn't even notice the pain from trying to force himself upright in the bed.

Frank made frantic shushing motions with both hands, before giving it up as a lost cause, and using his position and greater strength to keep the older man still. "Milt, would you please calm down. If you don't, the nurses will throw me out and probably stop me coming back." The relief was almost overwhelming when Hardcastle finally stopped fighting him and sagged back onto his pillows. Frank's question was dry. "Mind telling me what brought that on?"

Hardcastle snorted quietly in disgust. Frank watched, ready to call the nurse at a moment's notice, while Hardcastle closed his eyes and took a few minutes to catch his breath. Finally focusing on Frank again, Milt spoke in a careful, measured tone. "I've known Sandy for years, and I thought I'd taught him better than that. Really, Frank, revenge is never the best option, and it certainly shouldn't be the first one. How could Sandy do that?" Frank opened his mouth to speak, only to be waved silent by one tired hand. "And I know Sandy doesn't really like Mark, but how could he put the kid in that kind of position? Mark's as much a victim here as I am, but I've got a nasty feeling that his injuries are going to scar worse than mine."

Frank paused to make sure Hardcastle had finished speaking. "I don't think any of it was intentional, Milt. It was a traumatic day, and I think Sandy just let his impulses get away from him." Deep in thought about the effects of that day on Mark, Frank continued. "I think Mark will get through this better than you think, Milt. He's strong. The police department have already ruled the shooting to be self defence. We've all spoken to the Parole Board on Mark's behalf, and this afternoon's hearing should just be a formality anyway. Knowing the law's on his side for once should only make it easier for Mark to cope."

The strained quality of the silence from the bed drew Frank's gaze to Hardcastle's shocked face. "The Parole Board hearing is today? You should have told me, Frank. I could've spoken to them as well." Hardcastle was torn between anger at being unable to help Mark in the only way he could at the moment, and a sense of relief at not having to relive the shooting again just yet. His police statement had been bad enough. Following hard on the heels of his relief was worry, which arrived weighed down with what felt like a lifetime's worth of baggage. "Surely Mark should be here by now. Hearings don't usually last all afternoon." Hardcastle was plaintive now, sensing that he might not know the outcome today. Patience had never been his strongest virtue.

Frank glanced at his watch and stood to leave. "I've got to go, Milt. Visiting hour's just about up, and that nurse of yours will be staring daggers at me." Frank faked a shudder of fear and snickered. "I'm sure Mark will find a way to sneak in and let you know how things went. Just don't give him a mouthful for not telling you everything that happened. He knows how close you are to Sandy."

Hardcastle shook his head ruefully. "You know, the way that kid racks up protectors, you'd swear I was mean to him." The two men shared an understanding smile, and Milt sighed. "It's a pity things happened the way they did that day. I'm just really disappointed in how the whole situation was handled."

A sudden clatter in the hallway broke Hardcastle's train of thought, and reminded Frank to get moving back to his office. The piles of paperwork waiting there almost made him want to head anywhere but the precinct building. Heaving a mental sigh, Frank trudged out the door, turning at Hardcastle's sudden call. "Frank, if you hear from Mark before I do, tell him that I … never mind, just tell him he knows where to find me."

Frank nodded and sketched a wave as he left. A nurse was cleaning up a fallen tray of plastic cups and medicine boxes. Knowing how he'd feel about someone messing up his office and not apologising or helping to clean up, Frank stooped to help the nurse collect the fallen items. An older man in a conservative suit walked past, heading in the direction of Hardcastle's room, but Frank was too preoccupied to wonder why the man's face seemed familiar. The young nurse kept glancing down the corridor towards the elevator, a slightly worried look in her eyes. Offering her the items he'd collected, Frank tipped his head toward the exit. "Is there something troubling you, miss?"

Her gentle gaze settled on him and she smiled a little sadly, even as she shook her head. "No. I'm just a little worried about the young man who knocked this over. He looked so shocked and upset; I don't think he even realised he'd sent this flying." She raised the tray and settled it on the counter at the nurse's desk. "I wish I could talk to him, find out what's wrong. Maybe help him somehow. But I don't even know who he is."

Frank appreciated the depth of her concern for a total stranger; it made him confident that Milt was in good hands. What he couldn't know, not having seen the young man himself, was that Mark had been the person who'd sent the tray crashing to the floor, blinded to its existence by the desperate need to escape from hearing Hardcastle's words; driven by a primitive need to flee from the spectre of Hardcastle's disappointment.

The subject of the nurse's concern, Mark didn't even realise where he was going until he found himself next to the Coyote in the hospital parking lot. Dazed, he stared blankly around the parking lot for a minute or two, then brought his gaze back to his hands, white-knuckled from the strength of his grip on the car. Forcing himself to unclench his fingers, Mark finally dropped his hands to his sides. Feeling the trembling in his suddenly anchorless fingers, Mark decided that any action was better than none. In a move lacking its usual grace, he slid into the Coyote, started the engine and eased out of the parking space. Unsure of where to go, he let instinct guide his course, and soon found himself heading for the coast-side road home.

Home. Gulls' Way. Home had always been something special to Mark; a place filled with a mother's unconditional love, a place of warmth, concern and safety, a place to run to when the whole world seemed to turn against you. He hadn't had a place like that in his life for a long time, too long to even count the years. Over the last year or so, he'd come to hope that Gulls' Way, and Hardcastle, would be the home he'd so desperately wanted, and needed. But now it seemed like that was just another dream shattered by Weed Randall's bullet. This certainly hadn't been the result he'd had in mind when planning this birthday gift for the judge.

Sighing deeply as he turned off the highway, and in through the gates of the estate, Mark admitted to himself that he didn't know what to do next. He'd always had a backup plan before; a place to go and other options he could explore. Somehow, just being in Hardcastle's company had convinced him that there was no longer any need for a Plan B. Mentally kicking himself for that asinine assumption, Mark switched off the engine. Dragging himself out of the car, he slowly made his way across the lawn to stare out over the ocean. Ten minutes of that convinced him that the answer to his problems wasn't going to appear miraculously from the blue, and he headed for the gatehouse. Absently noting a weed in the rose garden and an unevenly trimmed hedge, he pulled off his tie and shoved it into the pocket of his sports coat. Inside the gatehouse, he slid the coat off, dropped it onto the nearest chair, and headed upstairs to find gardening clothes. For a second, he actually laughed at himself. "Who'd have thought you'd ever know how to garden?" His voice rang loudly in the silent house, so he headed out to where the birds still sang, and immersed himself in tidying the gardens. At the very least, he could make sure that they weren't a disappointment to Hardcastle as well.

Time passed quickly, the solitude prompting Mark to keep busy instead of letting his mind dwell on what had happened. Even so, Mark found that he'd done a lot of thinking by the time the sun set; all of which had led to one conclusion. He'd had no choice. No matter how he'd looked at the events, no matter how many times he'd replayed them while changing one thing here, or another there, he'd come to a decision about his actions on that horrible day. What had happened had been the best of outcomes for a rotten situation. Now he was resigned to the fact that in all the ways that mattered, and in the face of everything he'd learned from Hardcastle about justice and moral courage, he'd made the only decision he could. The only thing that remained undone was finding a way to live with Hardcastle's disapproval. And that would probably be harder to do than learning to live with Weed Randall's death on his conscience.

There'd been anger during the hours in the garden, and there'd been tears. The first had been expended with pruning, trimming and raking. The tears had dried in the sun, shed alone with only God as a witness to the depth of feeling that had provoked them. Mark felt he had the right to be angry; he'd been forced into a situation he would never have chosen, made a choice he didn't really know how to live with, and lost the respect of the only person who truly mattered. All things considered, angry was too mild a word. He was furious. Enraged. Possibly even incensed. And under all of that, there lurked a painful sorrow for himself and the judge. They'd both lost a little of their belief in each other, with seemingly no chance at redemption. Mark knew he'd come to see the judge as fallible, just a man whose trust in a friend could be damaged by an incident beyond anyone's control. Even as he admitted that he could see Hardcastle's point of view, Mark realised that some of his anger was directed at the judge, too; Hardcastle had believed the worst of Mark, and that hurt. The path ahead was now unclear, for the first time in many months. But by the time he gave in to exhaustion and fell into bed, Mark had managed to make one more decision. He'd visit the judge in the morning and see what happened next.

By the time he arrived at the hospital the next morning, Mark was second guessing himself. Perhaps it would be better to just leave things as they stood, serve out the rest of his parole and start making plans for a future alone. He'd managed alone before, and he could learn how to do so again. Slipping quietly through the door of the judge's room, Mark found the older man sitting almost upright and waiting eagerly, eyes fixed on the door. A huge smile spread across Hardcastle's face when he saw Mark.

"Boy, am I glad to see you, kiddo. There's talk of letting me out of this place tomorrow." The grin was infectious and Mark found himself smiling in return. He couldn't begrudge the jurist his pleasure in that thought. Hardcastle rattled on energetically. "I've called Frank already. Told him we need to plan a double celebration soon; I'm going home and the Parole Board's agreed to leave our arrangement alone. Some days, everything just goes the way you want it to!"

Mark was just starting to nod in agreement, when he realised that he hadn't told Hardcastle about the Parole Board's decision. His smile faded to a look of puzzlement. "How did you know about the decision?"

Hardcastle shook one scolding finger at Mark and sighed in mock despair. "Kiddo, when are you going to realise that I know just about everyone who's anyone? And that most of them owe me favours? An old friend dropped around yesterday afternoon, when the hearing was finished, to let me know the decision." Taking in Mark's guilty flush, Hardcastle sobered. "You want to tell me what's going on; why you didn't come here and tell me yourself?"

Mark ducked his head slightly, unable to meet those knowing eyes. He'd never been able to lie to the judge, not even over the telephone, so he knew he had no chance in person. Especially without someone else in the room to serve as a distraction. "Well, it was late, and I didn't think I'd get here in time; and then I thought I'd just drop by and let you know but I didn't want to disappoint you by not staying, then I thought you might be sleeping, so I decided to save the news for today …"

"Take a breath, McCormick." Hardcastle waved the younger man silent. Something else was going on here, that much he was sure of, if the way Mark was babbling was any indication. "I wouldn't have been disappointed that you couldn't stay. You couldn't disappoint me now, even if you'd only had one minute to visit."

Mark's discomfort only increased at that, and Hardcastle was puzzled. Before he could say anything else, Mark looked directly at him, and the sadness in those blue eyes stopped his voice. "You know, Judge, I think this is the first time you've ever lied to me."

Hardcastle was indignant. "I've never lied to you. What are you going on about, McCormick; when did I ever lie to you?"

Mark bit his lip and sighed at his own stupidity. He should've just held his tongue and let things slide, but as usual, he'd let his feelings get in the way of his common sense. "I know I'm a disappointment to you, Judge. You said so. Just yesterday, in fact, which means that you lied to me right now when you said I couldn't disappoint you."

Hardcastle's eyes glazed over as he tried to recall what he'd said the day before. The only visitor he'd really talked to was Frank, and as he ran the conversation through his mind, Hardcastle finally put two and two together. And got four. Light dawned and his eyes softened as they settled on Mark's miserable face.

"I knew it! You were here yesterday. You know, Mark, eavesdroppers rarely hear anything good." The sudden flush on Mark's cheeks confirmed Hardcastle's guess. "You heard me talking to Frank. And, as usual, you jumped to the wrong conclusion. You have to have all the facts before you draw a conclusion, Mark."

Hardcastle waved Mark to a chair and the dazed young man settled blindly into it. "But I heard you, Judge. You said you were disappointed in how things went. That means you're disappointed with what I did, and I don't know if I …" Mark's breath hitched slightly and he stopped speaking, knowing that he was about to embarrass himself by admitting how much he needed Hardcastle's approval and support. How he wasn't sure what to do, now that he'd lost the judge's faith in him.

Hardcastle sighed gently. "Kiddo, I said that I was disappointed in how the situation turned out. That's not the same thing as being disappointed in you. There's a huge difference between those two things, trust me." Hardcastle could see the need to believe in Mark's eyes. "Frank finally told me the whole story of that day, yesterday. I wish you'd told me everything sooner."

Mark shook his head. "Oh, no, no, not me. The doctors were very clear about that, Hardcase. Nothing upsetting, no talking about what happened unless you talked about it first. I wasn't going to be the one who ended up on the wrong side of your nurses." A small shrug of one tense shoulder consigned the whole affair to the past. "Besides, telling you wasn't going to change anything."

"I know that, kiddo, but sometimes it's just better to be able to tell someone how you feel. Like a release valve on a compressor, let some of the air out before the pressure gets unbearable. And I'd like to think you could trust me that much." Hardcastle seemed saddened at the thought that he wasn't the first person Mark felt he could turn to.

"It's not like that, Judge, honest. I just don't want to talk about any of it, to anyone. Although, I think your rose bushes probably have the inside track on my state of mind at the moment." Mark's smile was faint and wavering, but its return was a welcome sight.

Hardcastle smiled gently. "Now, here's the truth, Mark, and you can check it with Frank if you want." The smile widened. "I'm disappointed in Sandy, not you. I expected better from him. He had every advantage you didn't, growing up, and then he goes and acts like a vigilante. Disappointing." Hardcastle shrugged sadly. "Now you, on the other hand. I didn't expect anything more from you than what you did." Hardcastle paused, and held up a hand as Mark was about to speak. He could already see Mark taking that statement the wrong way.

"What did I just say about jumping to conclusion?" An admonitory finger wagged at Mark, then dropped to trace idle patterns on the sheet. "You were stuck in a bad situation. Every option was riddled with doubts and impossible choices. And I didn't help by making them give you my gun. You did the only thing you could do, for the best solution from a bad list of options." Mark shifted uncomfortably on his chair, and Hardcastle grinned to himself. It was so difficult for Mark to hear anything good about himself. Then again, he mused, he wasn't really any better at emotional confidences. But sometimes, reassurance was necessary. Fixing his eyes firmly on the distant scenery outside the window, he continued. "You and Sandy are polar opposites, Mark. Your choices make that clear." Then Hardcastle's voice dropped to a murmur, just loud enough to be heard. "I'm proud of you, Mark."

A slight gasp and a determined sniff kept Hardcastle's eyes focused away from Mark. When he was sure Mark had his composure back, Hardcastle glanced his way, to find his gaze caught by the look of joyous contentment on Mark's face. That look could have lit up a room all by itself. Maybe it was okay to be a sap once in a while, after all.

The tension finally leached out of Mark, leaving him feeling lighter than air. Hardcastle wasn't disappointed with anything he'd done. That alone almost made the whole dreadful day of the shooting bearable. He'd been right to put his trust in a crazy, retired judge who ate too many peanuts and thought that one or two people could make the world a better place. With a mental shrug, Mark tossed his half-formed Plan B into the trash can, and pulled his chair closer to the bed. He and the judge had a double 'welcome home' party to plan.


End file.
